


Birth of the Twin Gods of Madness and Bloodshed

by Goblinaesthetics



Series: New and Old Gods AU [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Violence, Deity Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Wilbur Soot, Gen, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade are Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goblinaesthetics/pseuds/Goblinaesthetics
Summary: The sword was made to protect a man's lover on the battlefield.The most powerful sword that the smith could manage to create. Anything if it meant their lover will return.But when something designed to be powerful in the face of bloodshed and madness.Bloodshed and madness will make it stronger.And strong things often don't like being controlled.
Series: New and Old Gods AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104521
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	Birth of the Twin Gods of Madness and Bloodshed

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha I have another fic that i really should do but i wanted to write this, and *technically* uploading this without pouring over it nonstop is technically helping me overcome my perfectionism, so...
> 
> Also. No, i'm not original with names, but I think they're neat, and ~technically~ its linguistically acceptable, so I'm just gonna go with it.

He had refused that he leave until the perfect blade was crafted.

The man watched his lover tire day and night in the forge.

Blade after blade was smelted, cast, and tossed aside.

None of them seemed good enough.

He wouldn’t be able to stay forever though.  
The King’s orders were firm, and the day that he would have to leave for battle only drew closer.

Until one day… His lover ran into their room, a smile so wide he would have fallen in love with him all over again if he could.

The sword that he had created was beyond beautiful.

It was a longsword, the iron of the blade held carvings like the lines of an ancient tree, and the handle was coated with a rich leather, where an aquamarine and a black onyx was set in the handle. It felt impossibly lighter than it looked, and was warmer than he could have expected.

‘For wisdom and protection’ His lover had whispered.

He slept soundly that night, even though he was cursed to leave the love of his life the following dawn.

His lover wept that morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

He wasn’t leaving his love. They had already put as much of their soul into their gift.

And his lover’s gift became a great blessing.

On freezing nights, he held the sword, and the thought of his love warmed him.

In battle, it didn’t so much as shake from the force of his enemies blows.

Even against horrific odds, the sword became his rock.

At night, when blood and gore flickered behind his eyes, he would cradle the sword to his chest and sing the tune his lover always loved to hum.

In battle, when he grew exhausted, he would look down at the beautiful blade, and fight as long as he could.  
Anything to return to his love. His family.

And when the horrors behind his eyes refused to fade, but sleep would claim him all the same, he was only grateful.

When he won battle after battle, but the cheers from his comrades felt empty because he’s forgotten something, what was he searching for?

He smiled widely as he explained his lover’s handicraft to his fellow soldiers, and frowned when they came too close to his gift.

His desperate urge to continue searching after battle became more insistent.

And his sleep became deeper despite the oceans of blood he saw every time he closes his eyes.

He would wake only to find himself in the middle of battle, blood and gore adorning him like jewelry.

His comrades spoke highly of him, but stayed away.

He would shake at night, blinking, trying to think, trying to understand what was happening to him and he clung his lover’s gift to his chest, praying for any kind of comfort.

It was a relief to hear his lover’s song as he drifted off to sleep.

His dreaming followed him to the waking world.

Dreams of screaming and shouts of agony.  
Betrayed eyes and blood blood blood _blood blood blood **blood blood bLOOD BLOOD HE WANTS MORE HE NEEDS MORE-**_

His heart gave out underneath the thick iron of his comrade’s sword, the young woman one of many who died that day. Her final breath being used to end the blood thirsty rage that many were unable to stop.

The man’s body was hesitantly sent home, a burial to ensure he did not rise from the dead to continue his blood thirsty ways.

But resources were thin. And swords were hard to come by.

So the man’s sword, the beautiful longsword which shone despite its wear, was passed to another soldier.

The young soldier held the sword with a look of awe and wonder.

They quickly became favoured by their peers by how quickly they became skilled in combat, almost cutting down armies single handedly.

And were quietly avoided when they began humming that same tune they had heard from its previous owner.

It didn’t take long for the young soldier to lose themselves in combat, laughing excitedly and hacking at their enemies with a strength that shouldn’t be possible of someone their size.

Madness pooled in their eyes, and fearing for their lives, their peers tried to pull the soldier’s sword from them.

The young soldier soon joined the sword’s previous owner in death.

Three people were killed trying to pry the sword from the young soldier's fingers.

The young soldier’s body was shipped home, and the sword passed to another.

And another.

It didn’t take long for the humans to see what was happening.

War easily drives the strongest man to madness, but rarely in so few days.

And rarely did the whispering of a sword reach their owner’s ears.

Soon the sight of a man, shaking and weeping, at night became commonplace.

Whoever was closest to the sword spoke frantically of a cold voice and honeyed words they couldn’t describe. They spoke of a gentle singing, a battle chant to kill and maim, and search for any scrap of life, to soak it in blood and burn it to ash.

Soon, good men were throwing themselves at the sword, desperate to grab the beautiful weapon and to cut through skin like butter. Through bone like burnt wood.

The cursed blade was frantically passed from hand to hand, trying to find one who could ward off the voice long enough to destroy the blade, the blade that would for sure sing its owner to endless madness.

The blade was called ‘W’lte Nobur’, meaning ‘Blackened Killer’, for all the blood and ash it left in its wake.

Each person it was passed to it left a trail of agony and blood larger than the next.

It screamed and laughed in the face of anyone who dared think themselves noble or worthy enough to be unaffected.

It sung sweet promises to those who thought themselves too fair or innocent to be swayed.

By the time it had reached the waiting hands of the royal priest, a deeply holy and powerful man, it was coated in blood old and new like a sickly polish. A taunt to all that saw it.

The holy man barely restrained himself as he threw the sword into a cell and blessed the bars with every prayer he knew.

A blessing which he could feel fade with every beat of his frantic heart.

He sealed the temple, and prayed to his gods.

He prayed as desperately as he could.

By the time Ph’elzae, the god of life and death, heard his cries and reached the temple, the priest was dead by his own hand. The sword singing to itself in delight in the dead man’s hand.

Ph’elzae did not need to hold the sword to know that even he was not immune to its madness.

Ph’elzae was easily the most powerful of all the gods. But he was also the most vulnerable.

He was as mortal as every other human.

And the sword would not hesitate to push until the god broke under its hold, driving him to destroy whatever he could grasp.

Even if it was entire worlds.

W’lte Nobur was too powerful to be sealed away. It was too powerful to hold. And it was too powerful to destroy.

But for the god of creation and destruction, breaking things into pieces and rebuilding them into something new was something he thrived at.

Something he yearned for. Even in the face of a horrifying fate even he couldn’t be saved from.

Ph’elzae knelt in the pool of the holy man’s blood and grasped the ash coated blade.

It hummed gently, singing of victory and the sweetness found in blood.

The ability to drive others to madness.  
The skill to cut down all it sees.

It was too powerful whole. It was too powerful to be used again.

Ph’elzae held the blade in one hand and the handle in the other, and with a shuddering breath...

He snapped the sword in half.

The blade scalded his hand like ice tearing skin to ribbons.

The handle screamed, in agony, in rage.

Ph’elzae ignored how the world shook around him as he focused on the blade.

A being. He must create a being that cannot be used by another human nor god ever again, something that even in death cannot be taken advantage of. More than madness.

Ph’elzae didn’t so much as glance at the blood stained creature he’d created and now he grasped it for dear life as the world spun around him, straining to focus as he turned to the handle.

A being. He must shape something that is more than mindlessness, he must form something that is more than endless bloodlust. More than bloodshed.

Ph’elzae gasped for breath, clinging desperately to…. something.

He could feel blood trailing down his face and pooling in his lungs.

The sword had claimed his life as well.

But he could no longer feel its presence.

Instead, gentle hands shifted him to his back, whispers of a soft song that was far warmer than the cold promises before.

Ph’elzae’s eyes fluttered open to the two creatures- the two people above him.

One had long red hair and dark eyes, they were covered in blood. Their eyes were soft, a startling difference to the gore that coated them.

The other had shorter hair, curling around their face. They were coated in ash and soot, the only colour being their eyes, which held far more silent cunning in their brown hue for someone born seconds ago.

He could feel the fabric of the world fraying beneath his hands, could feel the humans just beyond the walls fading away like candle flames in a windy night.

He was counting his final breaths.

Despite the world falling apart, piece by piece. The hands beneath him did not waver for a moment. The song falling from the ash stained one’s lips did not pause.

Ph’elzae could barely choke out a laugh at the sight.

He’d created gods.

Two gods born from bloodshed and madness.

He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them, even as his beautiful world crumbled around him.

The death of his world, for two children to call his own.

That felt like a fair trade.

**Author's Note:**

> I have more ideas about what to do from this universe!!! I'm hoping to explore more of it, but please don't expect it to follow canon.  
> I got to Tommy running away and hiding with Techno, and then canon just died on me, so i will be taking some serious artistic liberties if i do continue this universe.
> 
> Ph'elzae = Philza Minecraft baby  
> W'lte Nobur = "Blackened Killer"
> 
> \-----  
> Te'Nodē = Technoblade! 'Te'No' Means "Cold Warrior" with the suffix 'Dē' meaning 'From Blood'  
> W'l Bursöt = Wilbur!! 'W'l Bur' Means "Night Lover" with the suffix 'Söt' meaning 'From Ash'
> 
> So in this random language I made up: Cold+Night = Blackened. Lover+Warrior = Killer!
> 
> Hope you guys liked (///I_I//'/)


End file.
